


scuttle

by rathalos



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Gen, dragonborn mudcrab
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-30
Updated: 2019-11-30
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:02:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21612718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rathalos/pseuds/rathalos
Summary: “And what do we have here? A pilgrim? I’m afraid we’re busy,” the man says apologetically. “We’re expecting a visitor, you see.”Jo’rasta’s heart does a somersault in his chest. In a bad way.He thinks he might fall over. Scuttle is in the pot behind him. Scuttle is the Dragonborn. Scuttle is their visitor. Scuttle is a mudcrab. Jo’rasta opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it. He can do this. He has to do this. For the good of Tamriel.
Relationships: Dovahkiin | Dragonborn & Original Character
Comments: 13
Kudos: 68
Collections: Holiday TES Fanfic Fest!





	scuttle

**Author's Note:**

> this is a very light-hearted fic that was fun for me to write. i hope it fills the prompt ok!
> 
> (credit to @nerevar-shid-and-fard on tumblr for the idea that dragons have an all-tongue that they can use to communicate w/ ppl!
> 
> also i shuffled around the early-game quest order but jskdjfd it's fine)

“Scuttle . . . ”

Scuttle is a mudcrab and therefore cannot comprehend his own name, so he continues toward the sabre cat, claws clicking ominously. They are magnificent claws to be sure, shiny and sharp and perfectly capable of cutting someone open, but Scuttle is barely as long as Jo’rasta’s forearm. A juvenile mudcrab is no match for a sabre cat in its prime.

This cannot be allowed to continue, so Jo’rasta fires an ice spike into the sabre cat’s eye. Scuttle turns toward him, squealing indignantly.

“We need to have a talk, Scuttle,” Jo’rasta says, lowering his hands. “You are going to get hurt if you keep attacking things bigger than you.”

Scuttle butts up against the dead sabre cat’s body.

“You cannot eat that, little fool. If you have a hunger to be sated, Jo’rasta still has some clams left in his pack.” Jo’rasta says. “Which pocket did he put them in? Here.”

He cracks the clam open with his claws, digs out the soft flesh, and tosses it in front of Scuttle, who immediately scoops it up with his claws.

“You are so receptive to food,” Jo’rasta sighs. “If only you were as quick to pick up Dovahzul.”

Scuttle turns an eye stalk toward him, perhaps inquisitively, perhaps because he wants to eat in peace and Jo’rasta will not let him.

Jo’rasta shakes his head fondly and uncovers the lid of his cauldron-in-a-cart. It is filled with mud, a healthy amount of water, and various grasses that grow along Skyrim’s riverbanks, and so far it seems Scuttle has taken a liking to his new home. The only downside to traveling with his carapaceous companion is that his travel time is doubled . . . which is honestly not even that much of a downside.

“ _Fus_ ,” Jo’rasta says, picking Scuttle up by the shell. “The first word is _Fus_.”

Scuttle snaps his claws together.

“This one understands,” Jo’rasta says sadly. “One such as you will take so long to learn the language. But you must. You are Dragonborn. And Jo’rasta believes in you.”

He gives Scuttle another clam and sets him down in the cauldron. The crab takes a few seconds to settle in, then promptly burrows into the thick mud. Only the very tip of his shell is left sticking up.

“ _Fus._ There must be a second word. Shouts have three words,” Jo’rasta says, replacing the thin cloth on top of the cauldron. “You have already taken one dragon’s knowledge away. This one knows you can harness the power. Reach deep inside yourself and it will be there, else the Greybeards will laugh you and Jo’rasta out of High Hrothgar and Alduin will devour the world.”

Scuttle says nothing, does nothing. He has probably drifted off to sleep.

In the distance, like the back of an extremely tall and pointy mudcrab, the Throat of the World looms.

*

Jo’rasta is pacing.

“Maybe we could tell the Greybeards you are the Dragonborn. Maybe there is no need for lies,” he says. “But how can Jo’rasta prove you are Dovahkiin? You cannot express your own power.”

Scuttle, perched on top of Jo’rasta’s head, says nothing—merely extends one long leg to scratch at Jo’rasta’s ear.

“Thank you, but this one has no itch,” Jo’rasta says. “He is only nervous to climb the Seven Thousand Steps.”

Scuttle squeals.

“ _Fus,_ ” Jo’rasta tries again, futilely. “Maybe the Greybeards will be able to help. But then again, they could just throw us out. Should Jo’rasta bring you there? Of course he should. He cannot gamble with the fate of the world, after all.”

Jo’rasta gently picks Scuttle up and sets him down in the cauldron.

“This will be a bumpy ride,” he warns. “And cold. But Jo’rasta has enchanted your home to resist the snow. He will check on you often, he promises.”

Jo’rasta covers the cauldron, tells himself not to worry about Scuttle, makes sure the cushions under the cauldron are perfectly in place, and begins the trek up the Throat of the World.

It is long, difficult, cold, painful, but mostly boring.

Twice Jo’rasta defends himself from a pack of wolves, twice Scuttle furiously scrapes at the sides of his cauldron. He is the most bloodthirsty crab Jo’rasta has ever had the pleasure of meeting. Jo’rasta will not let him out, but it is funny to imagine Scuttle giving it his all against the predators.

After so long trudging up the Steps, Jo’rasta is met with the imposing sight of High Hrothgar. In front of him are two heavy doorways, likely only opened by magic or great strength.

Jo’rasta approaches the doors on the right, steels himself, knocks. For a few seconds, there is nothing but silence, and the occasional scrape of Scuttle’s claws along the inside of his cauldron. Then there is movement, a great creaking of hinges, and a weathered old Greybeard peeks his head out of the building.

“And what do we have here? A pilgrim? I’m afraid we’re busy,” the man says apologetically. “We’re expecting a visitor, you see.”

Jo’rasta’s heart does a somersault in his chest. In a bad way.

He thinks he might fall over. Scuttle is in the pot behind him. Scuttle is the Dragonborn. Scuttle is their visitor. Jo’rasta opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it. He can do this. he has to do this.

For the good of Tamriel.

“Is the visitor you seek perhaps . . . the Dragonborn?” Jo’rasta asks. The effort it takes to force his voice past the lump in his throat is monumental. Somehow, he manages. “I am . . . ”

“You won’t believe how many have climbed the Steps in these past few days claiming to be Dragonborn. Come in,” the Greybeard says. “We shall test you.”

Jo’rasta nearly collapses.

“I am Master Arngeir,” the Greybeard introduces, pulling the door open—strength, then, or the door might just be extremely light—and leading him into a candlelit entrance hall. “I represent and speak for the other Greybeards. If they were to let slip so much as a whisper, the force of their voices would surely destroy you. I have mastered myself, and can speak to you normally.”

“Okay,” Jo’rasta says. “Um . . . ”

“But you want me to get to the point, yes?” Arngeir asks.

It takes every single bit of willpower Jo’rasta has in himself to nod. Arngeir smiles, probably completely unaware of the turmoil Jo’rasta is going through.

“All in due time. Allow me to introduce you to the other Greybeards,” Arngeir says, gesturing with his arm toward three other men, all dressed in dark grey robes. “Borri, Wulfgar, Einarth. Should you prove yourself, they will oversee your training. Now—let us taste of your Thu’um.”

“This one has . . . ”

“What was that, my boy? Please, speak up,” Arngeir prompts.

“Your Dragonborn is . . . ” Jo’rasta trails off again, sure he will vomit if he keeps speaking. His chest is made of air. It tickles one moment, and in the next it is sharp blades. Wind blows through him. He is hollow. “Your Dragonborn—”

“Are you all right?” Arngeir asks. “What am I thinking? The trip must have exhausted you. Even regulars need a bit of rest after making the trip. Come, sit down, and catch your breath. Borri, fetch some water, please.”

Jo’rasta allows Arngeir to lead him and Scuttle over to a low stone bench. Borri is gone for only a short while, and returns with a mug of water. He gives it to Jo’rasta, then makes a series of gestures with his hands.

“Borri would like to know what is inside your cauldron there,” Arngeir says, while Jo’rasta greedily gulps his water down. “A living being, yes?”

Jo’rasta chokes on his water. The Greybeards hover over him, alarmed, until he recovers.

“Jo’rasta apologizes,” Jo’rasta says. Einarth quietly takes the mug from his hand.

“It’s quite all right, my boy. Now, the cauldron?” Arngeir asks.

A mudcrab, he could say. The salvation of Tamriel, he could say. The Bane of Alduin, he could say. The Dragonborn, he must say.

“There is a mudcrab in the cauldron,” Jo’rasta says, feeling close to tears. “He is your Dragonborn.”

“I think our visitor needs to rest for a while longer,” Arngeir comments.

“No!” Jo’rasta says, emboldened by his confession. He stands. “This one tells you the truth! He and Scuttle were at Helgen when Alduin wrought his destruction! He thought to save a mudcrab from the fires, and ended up carrying him to Riverwood, then to Whiterun, to warn the Jarl of a possible dragon attack. Only minutes later a dragon attacked the watchtower outside the city. He was Mirmulnir, and he fell to the combined might of the city guard and the Companions. Plus Jo’rasta. Scuttle absorbed his soul, but he was tucked away inside Jo’rasta’s robes. Now Jo’rasta is praised as Dragonborn—but it is not the truth.”

Arngeir opens his mouth, but Jo’rasta emphatically shakes his head.

“Jo’rasta is an adventurer. A scholar of dragons first, but always an adventurer. So the court wizard sent him to Bleak Falls Barrow, to retrieve an artifact. Dragonstone, he called it. He brought Scuttle because there was nothing else to do. Inside the barrow was a Word Wall, and when he brought Scuttle in front of it, Scuttle absorbed its knowledge. _Fus_! He knows, he knows, but he cannot shout. Jo’rasta tries to teach him.”

Arngeir slowly closes his eyes.

“That is an interesting tale you tell,” he says. “I am hesitant to believe you, but I see that the light of truth shines earnestly within your eyes. Jo’rasta, please retrieve your companion for us. Master Einarth will attempt to teach him the second word of this shout. We shall see if he is able to absorb the information.”

“Thank you,” Jo’rasta breathes, approaching Scuttle’s cauldron and displacing the lid. “Come on, little Dragonborn. Now is your time. Jo’rasta knows you can do it.”

He places Scuttle on the ground in front of Einarth. Scuttle clicks his larger claw threateningly, but makes no move against the elderly Nord.

“Easy, Scuttle,” Jo’rasta reprimands. “He apologizes.”

“No need,” Arngeir says, chuckling. “Master Einarth, if you would.”

Einarth nods, closes his eyes, draws in a breath so deep it seems to suck the air out of Jo’rasta’s own lungs, and lets it out harshly.

“ _RO_!”

A gentle breeze kicks up, tugging at the end of Jo’rasta’s robe and making it flutter gently.

 _Ro_ imprints itself onto the floor in front of Einarth, a glowing white-orange rune that pulses with the power of the Thu’um.

Scuttle, seeing potential prey, quickly makes his way toward it. He cannot eat it, for it is a rune, but he does consume it in some way. It burns itself off the ground, flaking away, ethereal energy infusing into Scuttle’s shell.

“See,” Jo’rasta says. “There he is. Dragonborn.”

“I think I need to sit down,” Arngeir says, while Borri, Einarth, and Wulfgar rush forward, hands a flurry of motion. “To answer your questions, I suppose we will just have to figure it out. Jo’rasta, please excuse us. We have much to discuss. To your right, there is a hall . . . you may choose any bed you like. We will come to you in the morning to see what can be done.”

*

Jo’rasta wakes with the sunrise, though it is hard to tell within the fortified walls of High Hrothgar.

The first thing he does is check on Scuttle, feed him some clams and some meat. His cauldron must be getting a little dirty, so Jo’rasta sets Scuttle on his bed, carries the cauldron outside, and dumps it out.

He rakes the hard-packed dirt near the castle with his claws until it is soft enough to be dug up and put into the cauldron. Then he packs snow into it, channels magicka into his hands, and blasts the cauldron with fire.

There it is: Scuttle’s perfect home, reborn.

He brings the cauldron back and unsuccessfully attempts to coax Scuttle back into it.

“Fun Paar, Mal Dovahkiin?”

Scuttle snaps his claws in the general direction of Jo’rasta’s head.

“Of course.”

Nevertheless, Scuttle is gently deposited onto the top of Jo’rasta’s head. There he settles happily, gurgling a moment. Jo’rasta chuckles.

“The Greybeards said they would find us. But what is the harm in seeking them out? None, surely.”

As it turns out, the Greybeards are gathered in what appears to be a large dining room, holding a silent conversation with their hands. Their movements are so fluid, so sure—Jo’rasta knows they are speaking in their own language.

He clears his throat to get their attention, and smiles briefly when Arngeir’s eyes stray up toward Scuttle.

“That is Scuttle’s favorite perch,” Jo’rasta explains. “He will not fall. Don’t worry.”

“All right, then,” Arngeir says agreeably. “Well, let’s get right to it. The other Greybeards, along with myself, have decided that Scuttle is undeniably the Dragonborn. As for what to do about it . . . we’ll just have to pass on our knowledge of shouts to him, and hope we can inspire him to put that knowledge into practice.”

Borri makes a slight motion with his hand.

“With your help, of course,” Arngeir says.

“Jo’rasta cannot imagine his knowledge of the dragons is comparable to your own,” Jo’rasta says.

“Maybe not, but you know mudcrabs, don’t you?” Arngeir asks. “Certainly, Scuttle favors you. We must work together to achieve results.”

“Very well,” Jo’rasta says reluctantly, aware that nothing good can come of this.

*

“This one has an idea: clams.”

“Clams, Jo’rasta?”

“Scuttle’s favorite food. Master Borri will shout. Then this one will give him a clam. Scuttle, driven by sheer gluttony, will shout in the hopes that he, too, will receive a clam.”

“Well . . . it can’t be worse than any of the ideas we’ve had so far.”

“ _FUS . . . RO . . . DAH!_ ”

“Your clam, Master Borri.”

“Scuttle, look, he is getting a—Scuttle, _no!_ ”

“Well . . . it appears we will have to find some other method of getting him to use the Thu’um.”

“Scuttle is also a being of rage. This has—come on, Scuttle, get— _off—_ been true as long as Jo’rasta has known him. If we could perhaps invoke his wrath, find some way to make him so mad he has no choice but to Shout at us all.”

“I would rather not.”

“Understandable.”

“However . . . ”

*

“This was a mistake.”

*

“Maybe we are teaching him the wrong sort of Shout,” Arngeir says, after the tenth unsuccessful attempt. “What could a mudcrab need? What Shout would one make use of? That is what we should be thinking of.”

“It is not the question of what a mudcrab needs, but what Scuttle, specifically, needs,” Jo’rasta says. “He is unlike most mudcrabs this one has ever seen. Jo’rasta suspects he has an inflated sense of self. After all, he was so arrogant, he attacked Master Borri.”

“Hmm,” Arngeir ponders, stroking his beard. “I will admit that I myself focus on more mystical Shouts. I do have a peripheral knowledge of destructive magic, but Master Einarth specializes in it. Master Einarth, what is your counsel?”

Einarth taps his foot several times, looking as though he is considering something, and then performs a long string of signs with his hands.

“He says he knows of a Shout that imbues one with colossal power,” Arngeir translates it, “but that he does not actually know the Shout himself. The Word Walls are located somewhere in—Solstheim, is it? Yes, Solstheim.”

“If that is what it takes, so be it,” Jo’rasta says. “He will smuggle Scuttle to Solstheim and back.”

“Well. I certainly admire your dedication,” Arngeir says. “However, that will not be necessary. Master Einarth deems the notion much too time-consuming. Perhaps at a later date, when Scuttle has already learned to harness the power of his Thu’um.”

“Yes, Jo’rasta sees your point,” Jo’rasta says. “Fire breath, then? Scuttle certainly has violent inclinations, and is unnaturally fascinated with fire.”

“Fire breath,” Arngeir says “Yes, yes, Master Einarth has knowledge of that particular Shout and can even use it himself.”

Einarth takes his place in the middle of the Great hall and imprints the words into the ground. With no small amount of jealousy, Jo’rasta picks Scuttle up and deposits him directly onto the softly glowing runes.

“Well,” Jo’rasta says, once Scuttle has absorbed all three words of the Fire Breath shout. “What now?”

“I hadn’t thought this far ahead,” Arngeir admits.

“Let us find some prey, then. Perhaps he is bloodthirsty enough to want to hunt it with his fire,” Jo’rasta says. “Jo’rasta will take him down the mountain and search for something to kill.”

“That strikes me as needless violence,” Arngeir says. Jo’rasta shrugs. “There is, perhaps, another way. Jo’rasta, if you would excuse us, I have something to discuss with my fellow Masters.”

“Of course,” Jo’rasta says. “Would you like Scuttle present?”

“Ah—no, please take him with you,” Arngeir says. “I will find you again when we have come to a decision.

*

Jo’rasta figures he should use this time for productivity, so he takes Scuttle back to his room, cracks open a book of fairytales, and begins to read. Scuttle is nestled happily in Jo’rasta’s lap, destructive tendencies quelled for the moment.

“These fairytales are rather grim,” Jo’rasta comments to Scuttle. “Listen to this: ‘ _And beware to the child who wanders along the road at night, for the spirits of the Barrow are angry . . . and they are always hungry._ ’ Who ends a fairytale with that? You would probably enjoy that if you understood what this one is saying right now.”

Scuttle gurgles at him, snaps his claws a few times, and retreats to the depths of his cauldron.

“Ah, you were probably beginning to dry out,” Jo’rasta realizes. “Forgive this one. He was not thinking of you. Are you hungry? Ah, what is he thinking. Of course you are hungry. Hold on. Jo’rasta has oysters.”

Quickly and efficiently, experience shaped from countless times before, Jo’rasta pries the shell of an oyster open with the tips of his claws, and tosses the soft flesh into Scuttle’s cauldron. The usual claw-clicking, oyster-devouring sounds ensue.

“This one should have asked where the library is,” Jo’rasta says, relaxing back onto his bed and focusing again on his fairytales. “Think of the knowledge he could have. Ah, he is such a fool. No matter. He will ask when the Greybeards finish convening.”

*

A few hours later—according to Jo’rasta’s internal clock, so it might have only been one or as many as six—someone knocks on his door.

He opens it slowly, quietly as he can, trying not to disturb Scuttle’s peaceful sleep.

“Hello, Jo’rasta,” Arngeir says. “We’ve come to a decision. Follow me, and bring Scuttle—we will take you to the Greybeards’ leader.”

“This one thought _you_ were the leader,” Jo’rasta says, picking Scuttle up and following Arngeir down the hall.

“We do our best to keep up that illusion,” Arngeir says, pushing open one of the doors to outside. Along the way they are joined by Borri, Einarth, and Wulfgar, the three of them falling silently into step.

He leads the two of them beyond the back court, beyond a wrought-iron gate and right up to a wall of wind and ice. It is made of magic, no doubt.

“Watch Master Wulfgar,” Arngeir says, as Wulfgar draws in a long breath. “He has mastered this Shout.”

“ _LOK . . . VAH . . . KOOR!_ ”

In front of Jo’rasta, the air trembles, slows, and the harsh wailing wind melts away. The path in front of them is cleared.

“Come,” Arngeir says, beckoning them along.

He leads them for a time up the mountain, along a set of stone steps nearly buried in the snow. Finally the six of them reach the tip of the mountain. To the side there is a word wall, but before Jo’rasta can go over and study it the unmistakable sound of a dragon’s wings beating reaches his ears.

He cries out in surprise, nearly dropping Scuttle, but Wulfgar rests a gentle hand on his shoulder.

Jo’rasta looks over fearfully, and the Greybeard merely shakes his head.

Jo’rasta watches, frozen, as a grey-green dragon descends upon them. It lands atop the word wall and leans down, regarding their group with intelligent eyes.

“What have you brought me?” the dragon asks, tilting its head from side to side.

“The Dovahkiin,” Arngeir says, stepping forward. “Jo’rasta, Scuttle, this is Paarthurnax. He is master of the Greybeards. Do not be afraid. Trust in us, and in him.”

It takes a great effort, but Jo’rasta manages a single, shaky nod. The memories of Alduin’s attack on Helgen and Mirmulnir’s attack on the Whiterun watchtower war inside his head—he wants to run, he wants to hide from this great immortal beast, but he has a duty. Jo’rasta owes it to Scuttle to be brave and stand his ground.

“Ah,” Paarthurnax says, blinking slowly at Jo’rasta. “Dovahkiin. It has been a long time. I grow lonely with only the Greybeards to make conversation with. Come. Let us observe tradition and talk. _YOL!_ ”

That said, Paarthurnax turns his head and unleashes a long gout of flame into the air. Even through the chilly air, Jo’rasta can feel the heat of Paarthurnax’s breath on his fur.

“Dovahkiin. Let us see if you can match me. There, on the Word Wall, is _Yol._ Look at it and learn,” Paarthurnax instructs.

“Well . . . ”

“Yes?”

“This one is not Dragonborn,” Jo’rasta says. “Instead, this mudcrab is who you seek. His name is Scuttle.”

“Ah, my apologies,” Paarthurnax says. “That takes me back. It has been some time since I have met a Dragonborn mudcrab. Hold him up to me. We will speak.”

What follows is a lengthy conversation that consists of mostly clicks, squeals, and grunts; Paarthurnax’s voices is constant throughout it all, asking questions about Scuttle’s life, his goals, his ambitions.

After some time has passed, Paarthurnax focuses on Jo’rasta again and turns his head toward the Word Wall.

“Scuttle understands the duties of the Dovahkiin now,” Paarthurnax says. “You are lucky to have found such a loyal and stalwart companion. He knows what he must do. As long as you are with him, you need not fear for the fate of the world. Now, bring him close to the Word Wall. I will give Scuttle my knowledge of _Yol._ ”

Jo’rasta dutifully carries Scuttle toward the Wall, watches as _Yol_ glows brightly and swirls toward Scuttle.

“Go on,” Paarthurnax urges. “You have it deep within you.”

For a moment there is silence; in the next, there is fire. Scuttle lets loose a spout of flame to rival Paarthurnax’s, and Jo’rasta staggers from the force of holding Scuttle in place.

“Again,” Paarthurnax directs. “You must master this power. Try _Fus._ ”

“ _Fus!_ ”

The very sound of Scuttle’s Shout is small, high-pitched and almost comical, but its force is not to be taken lightly. Again Jo’rasta staggers, and force of the shout dissipates into the air.

“By the gods,” Arngeir breathes, drawing near. “Did you see that?”

As if on cue, Scuttle belches out another tiny “ _Yol!_ ” while everyone scrambles to dodge the onslaught of fire.

Paarthurnax laughs, a deep rumble that almost shakes the ground underneath Jo’rasta’s feat.

“There is your savior, Arngeir. May Alduin tremble before him,” he says. “Now—it has been a long day, and I am tired. Go, all of you. Leave me to my rest, as I leave you to deal with the World-Eater.”

 _Yes,_ Jo’rasta thinks, hugging Scuttle close to himself. _May Alduin tremble before him._


End file.
